


The Point of No Return

by sexylibrarian1



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, No Plot, Pure Smut, angst at the end, explicit - Freeform, sex in public places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:18:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sexylibrarian1/pseuds/sexylibrarian1
Summary: You are on vacation in Europe, seeing a real opera, when you discover that there is another man sitting in the box seat next to you. He is intriguing, and he makes it known that he wants you.One shot





	

A man was already sitting in the theatre box when you arrived.

            You had to work to bite down on your irritation at the sight of him; this was something you had been planning for ages—attendance at a real opera, complete with a new evening gown and _actual alcoholic beverages served in your seat_ … and you hadn’t counted on someone being there to witness the roller coaster of emotions you knew was coming.

            He was seated, his back to you, his long, dark brown hair slicked back and tied up into a neat bun. The suit he wore was entirely black, and when he lifted his glass to his mouth, you saw that he was also wearing black gloves, made of leather. You blinked in surprise, wondering if he had been just as excited to dress up for this as you had.

            With a barely audible sigh, you resigned yourself to this man’s presence and sat down to his left.

            He turned his head to look at you and you felt your breath catch in your chest.

            A broad, square forehead swooped down into angular cheekbones, and his jawline was knife-sharp. His chin had a slight cleft in it, and his lips were full, a surprisingly soft pink. His hands rested gracefully on his rather expansive thighs, and you could tell from one glance that he was tall—maybe six foot four. Unaware that you had turned the barest shade of pink, you made eye contact with him.

            His pupils dilated; that wasn’t what held your attention. His eyes were a unique gray, unyielding, somehow tender, and intriguingly disturbing. You couldn’t look away.

            “Hello,” he offered. You blinked. His voice was unlike the rest of him, tentative and sweet, tinged with a Brooklyn accent.

            “Hi.” Your voice had cracked; you attempted to hold your cough in, but failed. He smiled.

            “Miss? Would you like something to drink?” The attendant was speaking behind you, and you had never been so grateful to be able to distract yourself.

            “Uh, yes, please. Um… vodka. Neat, please, if you don’t mind.”

            The gorgeous gray-eyed man blinked, and then, the corner of his mouth went up in an appreciative smile. “A woman who likes her alcohol,” he remarked admiringly.

            An image flashed in your head, barely coherent enough to be anything but an idea, but there nonetheless—the sight of that mouth, grazing leisurely down your stomach.

            “Ah… yes.”

            The attendant brought your drink back, right on time, and you took a gulp, bigger than you meant it to be. The man went back to looking toward the stage, taking a sip of his whisky, and the lights flashed, warning the audience. You shifted nervously in your seat, attempting to get comfortable, and your thigh brushed his.

            “Oh God—I’m s-sorry,” you stammered, blushing for real this time.

            “It’s okay,” he told you with a playful grin, and touched his thigh deliberately to yours. “Now we’re even.”

            “…Yes, I guess we are.”

            The lights dimmed, and the man leaned slightly toward you to put his drink down. You turned your head abruptly, still red in the face. His eyes flicked to yours, and then, the corner of his mouth lifted once again in a smirk.

            You downed the rest of your drink.

            Halfway through the first aria, his thigh pressed against yours, this time with purposeful insistence. You started to pull away, wondering what was happening, and then felt his fingers brush your leg. The leather of his glove creaked discreetly, and a small, startled gasp escaped you. You didn’t even have time to be surprised by the sound before his fingers began to stroke your leg through your dress, building into a rhythm. Heat pooled in your lower stomach, and rolled through your core, but you couldn’t bring yourself to snatch his hand and stop him.

            Your dress fluttered lightly as he slipped his hand under it, rucking it up, and began massaging the inside of your right thigh. You bit your lip. His fingers curled; he was kneading you now, and you felt a wet spot in your panties, a low ache pounding through you. A tiny, _weak_ whimper slipped from your lips, and before you could stop yourself, you arched forward into his hand.

            He pulled away.

            You managed to catch the desperate, miserable moan, but it was as if he’d heard it; he chuckled near your ear and then edged away from you, back to watching the opera. You chewed sporadically on your lip, trying to remember the fact that you had planned this night down to the very last detail, had saved up money for the trip, had promised yourself that you would remember every single bit of the opera for the rest of your life… but nothing helped.

            You _needed._

So you lifted your hand and set it on his upper thigh, stroking him just as he had stroked you. His leg jumped under your hand, tensing slightly, but relaxed again as your ministrations continued. You stroked faster, moving your hand over… over—

            He hissed through his teeth when you cupped him, and stopped your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

            Your stomach dropped. It wasn’t a whisper, it was a growl, and it wasn’t a question, it was a demand. He was already on his feet, and you didn’t even look back at the stage before you turned abruptly and followed him. He led you down through the building and outside, hailing a cab, then held the door open for you and let you get inside before going around and sliding in beside you.

            He gave the address of a hotel and set his hand back on your thigh. The cabbie said something in return; you were ninety-nine percent sure of it, but you weren’t paying any attention now. The man’s hand was picking up right where it had left off, and the throbbing ache in your groin was back. You shifted a little against his fingers, hyper-aware of the extra presence of the cabbie. He and the man were talking, neither of them missing a beat in the conversation, even as the man’s finger plucked at your panty line and then dipped just inside, stroking once. Your lip trembled, and he followed it by adding another, rubbing almost lazily against you. He leaned forward, blocking you with his bulk, continuing his conversation.

            “This country is beautiful at night--”

            He found your clit and circled it repeatedly with a thumb, dipping a finger in and out of you in the same rhythm. You bit your lip again, hard enough to taste blood, desperate to keep the needy moan from rushing out of you. Abruptly, your hips jerked, signaling your oncoming orgasm, and you glanced at the man beside you in alarm. He didn’t look back at you, but his lip turned up in a leer. His rhythm sped up.

            You came unexpectedly hard, muscles clenching again and again, and your eyes closed. Just as you began to come down, he crooked his fingers.

            “What is it?” The cabbie shot a glance in the rearview mirror at the sound of your cry.

            “Oh—um… dead spider. Sorry. Don’t like them.”

            “I got it,” your companion said, amusement painfully evident in his voice, and leaned down like he was picking something up. Instead of doing so, however, he deliberately caught your eye and put his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean.

            “We are here,” the cabbie announced, and the man paid him, tipping him a generous amount.

            You scrambled out and away from the car, bouncing on the balls of your feet as your companion leisurely exited the taxi and loped over to you. As soon as the taxi was out of sight, however, you felt his hand close harshly around yours, and he very nearly dragged you upstairs. He picked you up with one arm and slid the hotel card into the slot, opening the door, and let it ease shut behind him as he hooked your legs around his waist and put his mouth to your neck with a ferocious, single-minded intensity. He nibbled, sucked, licked, and bit until you were covered in hickeys, and you moaned helplessly, relieved to be able to finally express your desire.

            “Do that again, doll,” he demanded, dropping you on the bed and taking your dress off. Somehow, the two of you managed not to rip it to pieces, and he laid it carefully well out of the way before coming toward you again. He took a bared breast in his hand and closed his teeth around your nipple, and you rewarded him with another moan. As he lavished attention on your soft skin, marking you everywhere, you frantically yanked at his tie and suit jacket, wanting him naked, more than anything you’d ever wanted in your life. He pulled a hand away from your body and ripped the tie off himself, dropping it carelessly to the floor, throwing the suit jacket on top of it. You grabbed his pants and unbuttoned them, scrabbling slightly, and he helped you get them off and stepped out of them.

            His erection strained at his boxers; he was enormous.

            “Lay back,” he commanded, and you obeyed, eyes wide. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you until you were hanging off the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you.

            “Wait—my heels-”

            “I’m leavin’ ‘em on, sweetheart, I want ya to mark me up.” His accent had grown thicker, but somehow stranger—it was half Russian, half Brooklyn now. You had barely a second to consider that oddity before he took your panties in his teeth and brought them down to your ankles, then pulled them off and smiled. “Look at ya, so wet for me, and I’ve barely touched ya.” He licked a long stripe up your vagina and watched you tremble. _“Krasavitsa,_ sweet girl… that’s it, come on… give it to me, baby doll…” He was speaking against you now, his words muffled against your wet heat. “God, ya taste so good, so sweet…” He growled as your heels dug into his back. _“Da,_ just like that-”

            For the second time, your orgasm began to build, but this time, you moaned loudly. He added a finger to his mouth, and the sudden sensation of leather on your sensitive skin made you shriek. In vain, you tried to sit up and reach for him—rip his hair out of its bun, tug it in a last-ditch bid for the climax you _so_ needed—but he was smiling, laughing, everything was vibrating, he knew he had you—

            “Come.”

            You did.

            He accepted it, licking it up, catching every last drop, and then got to his feet. You sat up, with effort, and reached for him, wanting to touch him, to return the favor.

            “Did I tell you to move, honey?”

            There was a brief, charged pause. Slowly, you laid back down.

            “Good girl,” he praised. “Do you know what I wanna do to you?” The Russian accent was becoming more dominant now. “I wanna get inside you and fuck your tight little _pizda_ until you’re screamin’ for me. Do ya want that, doll?”

            Your jaw dropped. All you could bring yourself to do was nod.

            He nodded and took off his boxers, revealing a swelled and dripping erection, and smiled at the look on your face. “Givin’ you what you want gets me off, dolly,” he said with a smile, and despite your haze, you noticed a trace of sadness in it. He hooked your legs on his shoulders and leaned over, positioning himself just outside you. “You sure?”

            “…Yes,” you whispered.

            He ground against you, testing you, and you moaned, your hips jerking. “Please…”

            “Please…?”

            “Please… I… I want you inside me…” You felt the blush creep up from your neck to your cheeks.

            “For what?”

            Your mouth parted. “I want you to—to fuck me. Please.”

            In one long, slow thrust, he entered you. You inhaled sharply, surprised by how much he filled you, and he looked down at you, alarm in his eyes. “You okay, baby?”

            “Feels… good. So good,” you managed to stammer, your eyes rolling back.

            He smiled and thrust again. “You like it?”

            “Yes—oh, _yes!”_ He was moving in a rhythm now, holding himself up with one arm and bringing the other hand down to stroke your clit. You let out a cry and trembled with every stroke.

            “Goddammit, sweetheart-” There was a mechanical noise, followed by the sound of fabric ripping. You caught a glimpse of something silver where his left arm should have been; the sleeve of his shirt was in tatters. “Fuck!”

            The bed was slamming against the wall with every one of his thrusts, and his rhythm increased, punishing in its intensity. Vaguely, you heard yourself whimpering, begging him to thrust harder, faster, _god, let me come, please let me—_

And then you did come, so hard that you screamed. Dimly, he swore in another language above you—maybe Russian, maybe German—and his hips stuttered as he followed you to climax. Your body was tensing, snapping, clenching against him, your walls squeezing relentlessly.

            “…Jesus… Jesus doll…”

            You took a breath; it wasn’t enough. He had rolled off of you now, and cupped your cheek in his still-gloved hand. He was calling you beautiful, thanking you, but you were so very tired…

 

The next morning, the first coherent thought that came to you was, _I thought people only blacked out from having sex in books._

Apparently it also happened after meeting tall, mysterious strangers with disturbingly tender eyes and dominant tendencies.

            You rolled over in the bed, and blinked. He was gone.

            “Room service!”

            You sat up. A maid was knocking on the door. “I didn’t order room service!”

            “There was an order twenty minutes ago, ma’am.”

            Reluctantly, you sat up, wrapped yourself in a blanket, and opened the door. The maid was there, standing by a tray full of food and a bouquet of daisies. You shot a glance toward the bathroom, wondering if your companion was hiding in there, but there was no sound, so you went to your purse and pulled out some money.

            “I was tipped with the order, ma’am.”

            You dropped your purse. “…I’ll take it. Um… thank you.”

            “You’re welcome, ma’am.” The maid wheeled the tray in, and then left.

            Blinking like an owl, you investigated the food; there was more there than you could ever eat on your own, and you wondered if he would come back and share it with you. The plates were full of pancakes, bacon, steak and eggs, fruit, crepes, orange juice, coffee, and soda. You bit your lip and picked up the daisies. A note, followed by another piece of paper, fell out of the flowers,

            _Dear doll,_

_Thank you for a lovely night. I hate to leave you like this, without a goodbye. It’s not very gentlemanly, but I’ve got some secrets, and I don’t wanna drag you into my extremely complicated life._

_I didn’t know what you like to eat, so I just bought a bit of everything they had. If you don’t like any of it, there’s a bakery right across the street with amazing scones. I like to stand in front of it every morning and just smell the pastries and the bread._

_There should be a ticket to tonight’s performance of the opera with this note. I figured you should do what you came for._

_You are so beautiful and sweet. Thank you again. Last night was the first night without bad dreams I’ve had in a long time, baby doll. I’d stay with you, and not just for that, but you deserve a lot more than I can give you._


End file.
